


Great Expectations

by blueteak



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16572683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/pseuds/blueteak
Summary: Margaret and John consider their parents and parenting while awaiting the arrival of their son or daughter.





	Great Expectations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



They had always contemplated what kind of parents they would be, far before there had ever been any romance on the horizon. Even when they had been children themselves, there had been off-handed thoughts and comments about what they would do when they had children. From John, mostly what he wouldn’t do—and those comments had mostly been muttered to himself if uttered in words at all. For Margaret, there had been the odd occasion where she’d not got her way and thought of what she would certainly never herself do to her son or daughter. However, for the most part, she intended to do for her children as her parents had done for her—even if they had not quite managed to do it for themselves.

Margaret had been allowed to develop her own interests, to pursue reading rather than whichever more traditionally feminine pursuits it was thought (by those other than her parents) that she should master. She was free to sigh over the changes that came over Helstone with the seasons rather than over gown designs. Most importantly, while her parents listened with indulgence to her rare musings about what her wedding day would look like, they never once even smiled to one another over her head when she mentioned one young man or the other in a way that seemed more than politely interested. She was never made to feel as though her life wasn’t complete without a man. 

When she had children, she decided, she would allow them the freedom to marry when they wished, or not to marry, if they didn’t wish. They would have money for books and time to swim, be they boys or girls. 

As John and Margaret grew older, they saw patterns in themselves as well as in society that might keep their child-rearing ideals from being reached. And then there was the question of money, always money. Whether to marry for it, and mills to purchase, mills to save. Their own patterns of temper and stubbornness to guard against. And yet, well before they even met, they each had certain notions of what they would do, what they would permit, what they would encourage and what they would forbid absolutely. 

Even after they had fallen in love and married, northern and southern stubbornness crashing together and giving way to reveal the tenderness inside each, they held to their ideas of what they wanted for their children.

Of course, Margaret, smiling as she drew John’s hand to the swell of her belly, joked that she would be sure their daughter knew it was appropriate to shake a man’s offered hand in the north. 

John smiled into her hair, their present position in bed, the softness of Margaret’s hair, and the fluttering kicks he could feel in her belly softening the mortification he had experienced at her refusal to do so what now seemed like such a long time ago. 

After a long pause, a pause so long that it was possible Margaret had fallen asleep, John offered his own lesson for their child, his voice roughened by the late hour and uncertainty. 

“If we have a girl, I’ll reinforce the idea that education is important, and how to sharpen her insights…if I can. And above all, I'll try to teach her to know when to stand her ground." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was tinged with affectionate amusement. "I’m sure you and my mother will help with that.”

Margaret’s lip quirked. “Your mother would turn our daughter into a piano playing pillar of granite, I’m sure.”

She bit her lip then, almost wishing to call the words back. She had meant to be as light and affectionate as he had been, but it was possible, even now that they knew one another so much better, for there to be a misunderstanding. But John hadn't tensed at her words, so she continued. “Still, our daughter would grow up knowing her worth, to be sure.”

Margaret felt John nod against the nape of her neck. 

“And a son?” she asked, though she wasn’t certain why she’d asked John first rather than sharing her own view.

This time, John did stiffen behind her. Instinctively, Margaret pressed his hand, the one still gripping her belly, tighter, fearing he would let go. 

She continued to hold it tight for the long moments it took John to reply.

“A son. I’m sorry, Margaret. I don’t know why, but when I picture a son, I can’t help but imagine mill disasters.”

Margaret turned to face him.

“I can’t tell you a fire or another failure couldn't happen,” she said, pulling him toward her until she could feel the pressure of the point of his nose against her collarbone.“God knows we both understand reversals of fortune. If the mill fails, our son could work a loom— if he’s lucky, he'll be taught by Higgins and be skilled enough to work for any mill. And if he’s unlucky, an accident of the types you have witnessed could befall him. Not if you have any say about it, which I can’t imagine your not having, at least in some way. Whether you wear a master’s hat or a laborer’s cap, I wouldn’t imagine anyone using flame in any mill you’re ever associated with.”

“No indeed,” John replied, sounding somewhat comforted by Margaret’s assurance that he would be a presence to contend with in a mill regardless of his position. Margaret wasn’t given to wifely flattery. Whatever her assessment, he was certain that Higgins—Nicholas, now—would concur. 

“And even if we continue to have good fortune, at least in terms of money, our boy—as well as our girl—could come to the mill on an errand, or be present to see how the mill operates, and an accident could occur. Or he or she could contract an illness, or fall from or under a horse or do the right thing at sea and be hunted as a mutineer.”

Margaret wasn’t certain how her heart had remained steady while reciting the list of possible disasters awaiting their son or daughter. It might have been a combination of simply being unable to imagine anything happening to their child while he or she kicked so confidently at her ribs and also the realization that while she and John would do as much as possible—would give anything—for their child’s safety, it was ultimately not anything they could control, much as they would wish. 

Despite how steady Margaret thought her heart was, John seemed to pick up something in her voice—perhaps it had been the mention of the fate that had befalllen her brother. 

He decided a little levity was called for. “If we have a mutineer, it’ll be our daughter, not our son,” he told Margaret, overjoyed when she smiled.

“That’s what will come of teaching her that it’s acceptable to shake a gentleman’s hand,” Margaret agreed, laughing as the baby kicked either in agreement or disagreement. 

For a time they lay there in stillness, feeling the baby's continued movements.

“I think…” John started, only to stop.

Margaret had started to learn his silences by now. If she bided her time, chances were he’d speak, but not if she spooked him. 

“I think…both our mothers are examples to follow, in their own way.”

Margaret nodded, encouraging him.

He continued, “Your mother once told mine that you had never acted with impropriety. And while I’m sure she was correct for the most part,” he said quickly, seeing her about to cut in, “it does take a loving and supportive sort to never admit of any possibility of impropriety in one's child, even when one is the mother of a parson’s daughter. You surely didn’t act with complete propriety when you were five, for example.”

Margaret nodded. Her five year old self may not have acted appropriately at all times. And then one must also consider what had been appropriate to her parents and to God and what was appropriate to London or Milton society. In that case..she could also admit that perhaps she had not been proper at all times considering all definitions of proper. The ones that mattered, however…

John turned her chin up, gently redirecting her attention toward him. That was unusual. It wasn’t that he necessarily avoided eye contact with her when he was sharing something, but he didn’t generally go to such lengths to seek it out, either. 

“I don’t by any means wish to suggest that our fathers were men of similar character. Your was a gentleman and a scholar and good friend. And mine….as you know, I can't speak of him. But your father, even as admirable as he was, made decisions for your family out of pride that harmed you. He could not have known what would happen between us—and I know how it pains you that he never learned of it. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I don’t really know how to be a father. I’m afraid once the child is born I’ll wake and find myself transformed into my own father. If my fortune is good, I’ll be transformed more into yours, but I dare say the best that could be said of me is that my pride could hurt us all. It almost ruined my family before.”

Throughout this speech, John’s gaze remained sharp, as he reproached himself in terms harsher than he’d used to anyone—even the man who’d brought a flame into the mill, though he kept his voice low, as though the baby could hear him from the womb.

Margaret paused and prayed for guidance, knowing she would have to choose her words carefully.

She wondered how Nicholas would advise her were she to find a way to bring this fear to him without betraying John’s confidence. She doubted that any could accuse him of being a bad father—though John’s long ago statement that fathers who went on strike endangered their own children's lives made her wonder whether John would equate the risks Nicholas had taken with her own father’s risk in standing on principle. Surely he would understand that Nichols had been motivated by his desire to give his children and other men and women’s children a better life, whereas her own father, rest his soul, had made an argument about principle, yes, but without the hope of material benefit. 

Margaret also had a difficult time imagining John as having the improper pride he claimed to have. Indeed, she thought with a mild blush, she herself had more to chastise herself for In that department than he did. Why, Nicholas had told her of the last shift in the mill before she’d bought it, how John had told him he was no one’s master when Nicholas and Boucher's son--now as good as Nicholas's son-- had finished their work. 

And then it came to her. She needn’t risk John seeing Nicholas as a father who had risked too much for striking, and thus possibly cause a rift between them. She could use the example of John’s own interactions with Tom, Boucher's son.

By the time she was ready to speak, John’s gaze had grown softer, though it still contained worry so sharp it could cut. 

“When I imagine you with our son, John, I do not picture you behaving the way you did the first day I met you, no matter how justified you may have been. Nor do I see you as someone beset by pride. As being overcome by not wishing to risk everything through speculation, yes. You have yet to convince me that pride had anything to do with it. No, when I picture you with our son, I picture you with Nicholas’s boy--Boucher's Tom.”

John had broken eye contact during Margaret’s recital of his praises. Interestingly, he could damn himself while maintaining eye contact, but couldn’t receive praise, even well deserved praise. It wasn’t that he didn’t have (proper) pride in himself, as had been made clear when he’d taken Margaret to task for assuming he’d had no feelings and wasn’t worthy of her. All the same, praise, or even lack of condemnation when he had condemned himself, had made him look down. Margaret filed that information away. Even after over a year of marriage, she was still learning him. 

At her words about how he had interacted with Higgins’ boy, however, he looked up. 

“I hope I’ve not acted improperly and acted as a father to him. Nicholas is an excellent father to him himself.”

Well, Margaret thought with exasperation and amusement. That answers the question of whether he considers Nicholas a good father. No matter. Using examples featuring John himself was better than holding Nicholas up as an example anyway, though she now knew Nicholas could be someone she could name as someone to consult should John feel comfortable seeking advice. 

This time she felt comfortable allowing both her amusement and exasperation to be heard in her voice. “As you once told me, you don’t act the father with your workers. At least, not the strict, all knowing father you meant, the kind who must regulate his child’s every thought. That doesn’t mean that you’re not concerned with teaching Tom how to read or making sure he has good, wholesome food to eat. Or that he’s given sweets every now and then when you both think Nicholas isn’t watching. You’re good with children, John. Having our own won’t transform you into an ogre. I’m not sure of anything else—whether our child will live a long and happy life, whether he or she will be rich or poor or in-between, or a mutineer or a man or lady like my brother or your sister or either of our parents. What I can guarantee is that you will be a good father, John Thornton.”

And so he was, to Nicholas Frederick Thornton and Elizabeth Mary Thornton and Jane Frederica Thornton. Even when he discovered that one of them had underlined “Do not train a child to learn by force or harshness; but direct them to it by what amuses their minds, so that you may be better able to discover with accuracy the peculiar bent of the genius of each” in their grandfather’s copy of Plato that had been given to him by their mother.


End file.
